


Little Bit

by hato



Series: Untitled Series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 03:42:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hato/pseuds/hato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John just needs a little bit. And Sherlock has just enough to get him through this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Bit

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC. 
> 
> A/N: I wrote this before seeing Season 2, obviously, lol. So it's not exactly S02/Ep01 compliant, other than the fact that they lived through it.  
> Inspired by the Song: Little Bit by Likke Li

It’s bitterly cold outside. Damp and icy.    
  
John barely feels it. Perhaps, a bit, in his hands. He flexes them a few times to get his sluggish blood circulating through his fingers again.  _Shock_ , his training tells him.  _Acute stress reaction_. Tucks his hands back under the blanket Sherlock tossed over his shoulders before leaving the pool with Mycroft’s cheery entourage.  Bright blue, Shaun the Sheep print. Nicked from an open locker.  Sherlock had promised to return it before its owner ever became aware of its absence.   
  
John ignores the curious glances in the rearview mirror. Surely a bloke wrapped in a child’s blankie isn’t the strangest thing Mycroft’s driver has seen during his tenure.   
  
He pulls the blanket tighter around him and slumps heavily against the car door, staring out the window. London is still dark. A blur of black and grey shapes passing by the tinted glass, colored lights streaking here and there in abstract patterns.  John wants to close his eyes. He’s tired. Exhausted.  And the hum of the engine and the warmth of the blanket and the soft clicking of Anthea texting next to him and Sherlock’s brooding silence on the other side of her should be enough to send him to sleep.   
  
But there’s something.  Something .  Some little bit of... tension... that he can’t quite shake off. Just enough to keep John from slipping away, prohibiting his escape from the night’s events.   
  
So John continues to stare out the window until the car slows and angles against the curb. 221 Baker St, on his side.   He barely listens as Anthea and Sherlock exchange a few cold words, focusing his clumsy fingers on opening his car door.  It takes him a moment and John is mildly surprised to find Sherlock already standing on the curb, holding the door open for him.  John wonders if Sherlock simply moved that quickly or if he himself had truly been so slow. Doesn’t really matter, and the thought is quickly gone the way of all John’s current thoughts. Oblivion. Lost, in the dark, hazy oblivion where nothing makes much impact.  If Anthea suddenly sprouted wings and sang a medley of Mycroft’s favorite show tunes, John doubts he’d do more than raise a brow.  He steps out and nods in return to Anthea’s distracted farewell.   
  
Sherlock doesn’t actually take John by the arm, but he stays very close to him. Certainly near enough to touch and John accidentally brushes against him several times as they shuffle through the door, and up the stairs. He feels lighter now, without the heavy vest lined with explosives that he’d worn for far too long, but the stairs still seem impossibly steep.  John can’t help but chuckle as Sherlock’s hand- finally- barely rests on his elbow just before they reach the landing. Not quite pulling him along. Steadying him.   
  
John feels the rush of frigid air, familiar and comforting smells  as Sherlock opens the door to their flat.  Sherlock’s hand guiding him still, but John remains on the landing. Keeps from being led inside.  That little something. Niggling in the back of his mind. John glances up, catches Sherlocks’ small, questioning frown.  Gives him a small, assuring smile. “ Think... I’m gonna sleep. For a while.”  And he wants to say something else. But he doesn’t know what he wants to say so he says nothing.   
  
Sherlock’s expression is rather blank. The frown melts into a quiet, “ Of course.” And- to John at least- it looks like Sherlock wants to say something else. But he doesn’t.   
  
So John stands on the landing, uncertain. Apparently waiting, though he has no idea what he’s waiting for. For something to be said between them? For Sherlock to turn and enter the flat? For his own legs to start working?  He wobbles as he turns on his heel, getting his foot on the first step. “ G’night.”  John grips the banister and hauls himself up.   
  
“ Good night.”  Faint voice behind him. Slight creak of the floorboards.   
  
John doesn’t think at all as he climbs the stairs. Simply gets himself up and to his bedroom door without stumbling.  Closes it behind him, slowly approaching the bed in the dark. Idly pulls the blanket from his shoulders, draping it over the back of a chair.  He bends down to tug the chain on the bedside lamp and flinches against the sudden wash of yellow light.   
  
Toes off his shoes. Stockings balled up and placed inside. The sleeveless jumper joins the blanket over the chair. Belt undone, slipped through the loops, placed on top of the jumper.   
  
Head empty. Some comfort in the mundane routine of undressing. The quiet of the room presses in on him, roaring in his ears.   
  
John sits on the edge of his bed, fingers spread out on the duvet, feeling the worn fabric, the loose threads.  Begins unbuttoning his shirt. Taint of chlorine lingering in his clothes, on his skin.  He feels sick...  
  
There’s a knock at his door and John startles, chuffing a tiny laugh at being startled. Bit on edge, still. “ Come in.” John shakes his head, grimaces at the roughness of his own voice.  Tries again to slip the plastic disc from its hole as he stands up.   
  
The door swings open quietly, Sherlock appearing on the other side, expression unreadable.  John’s gaze widens at the sight of pyjama pants and a panda bear t-shirt, dressing gown flowing around Sherlock’s legs.  How bloody long did he sit here spacing out, that Sherlock has managed to undress before him?    
  
It’s a stupid little concern. Trivial. Keeps the important, scary stuff at bay.  John continues to struggle with the button.  Swears to himself that he’s going to burn this shirt in the morning if he can ever get it off!    
  
“ I just... here.”  Sherlock’s voice. Cautious at first, then gently exasperated as he takes the two strides to the middle of the room and catches the front of John’s shirt.   
  
John is too surprised to protest, allowing his hands to be smacked away.  He stands, wavering very slightly, head tipped down to watch Sherlock deftly unbutton the remainder of the plaid shirt. The soft, white cotton undershirt is swiftly exposed.  John pauses, rubs the hem between his fingertips.   
  
Sherlock steps back and John looks up. And Sherlock has this look  on his face and John recognizes it even if he can’t name it at this moment and it tugs on something in his chest that he didn’t even know was twisted so tight that he can hardly breathe-   
  
John practically jumps the short distance to get his body as close to Sherlock’s as he can. Sherlock seems to have the same idea. Only this time he’s not quick enough and John nearly knocks the other man off his feet. Frantic hands, just everywhere, everywhere they can reach. Silk and cotton and smooth patches of warm skin. Grasping and clutching. Pulling and tugging.   
  
They don’t kiss. John’s aware of this, notes this fact somewhere in his distracted brain. Their  mouths barely brush against each other on their way from one side to the other, lips pull on earlobes, teeth scrape over chin and jaw and the strong line of a neck.  A hint of amused indignation, a tiny spark of disappointment.  But really,  John knows it doesn’t matter. Not right now. In this moment.   
  
John closes his eyes and pushes the tension forward, pushes against the haze of shock-induced apathy and the frustration just beneath it to find expression in his scrabbling fingers and nipping mouth. Ignores the small voices still attached to some sort of romantic delusion.  Reaches for the nervous energy and the swelling  urge to prove his survival. He’s alive. They’re both alive. Blood pounding in his ears, throbbing in his veins and he wants Sherlock to hear it. Feel it. To feel Sherlock alive against him.  
  
John wants their kit off, now. All of it. Wants nothing but skin on skin and their sweaty bodies pressed together so he can forget the coldness of metal and Semtex and the bright spot of red light on his chest.  Forget the bright spot of red light between Sherlock’s brows.   
  
They stumble together, hands invading every gap of clothing. John’s button-up shirt hangs off his shoulders. Sherlock’s t-shirt pushed up to his armpits, John’s fingers sliding through the soft, damp hair curled there.  Not paying attention as they fumble about, John pressing forward in his eagerness and Sherlock pressing forward just as eagerly and using his extra height to great advantage.  John loses his balance, tumbles backward onto the bed.  Takes Sherlock with him, gripping his upper arms hard enough to make Sherlock grunt in discomfort.  Definitely a bit on edge, but Sherlock doesn’t protest the mild hurt.   
  
John breaks away from squeezing bruises onto Sherlock’s arms just long enough to haphazardly pull down the thick blankets.  Kicking legs, swatting arms. Bodies bumbling and shifting. Stretching and curling on the end-of-the-week sheets he knows he has to wash tomorrow anyway. No reason to dirty the duvet, as well.   
  
John takes a deep breath and dives back into the frenzy. Gets his hands fisted in the collar of the dressing gown and strips it off with harsh jerks.  Tear of a seam. A hiss from Sherlock who handles John’s clothes with equal disregard for damage. John’s plaid over-shirt is yanked off, leaving thin red welts in the crooks of his elbows and along one wrist. Undershirt roughly pulled up.  John grits his teeth, Sherlock’s thumb sinking into the scar tissue on his shoulder.  It’s an odd, discomforting sensation and John can’t decide if he likes it or not.  So instead, John pushes his hips against the mattress, inviting Sherlock to unbutton and unzip his denims. He shivers at the contact. Sherlock’s fingers bleed heat through the thin layer of his pants. John finds this confusing because Sherlock’s hands are always cool to the touch when they grab his wrist to run faster or capture his head during a memory-enhancing spin. He decides to ponder it later.   
  
John sucks a mark on Sherlock’s chest, right above his nipple, the absurdly soft t-shirt rumpled against his nose. Sherlock moans and John pulls on the man’s waistband. Glances down into the shadows between their bodies. Pale skin, a patch of dark hair.  The elastic catches on Sherlock’s half hard cock and John just manages to brush the satiny skin before slender hands get in the way. Sherlock pushes his own bottoms down, two fingers hooked into John’s waistband to pull them down as well. John forces his own hands onto his denims and pants to help out, shoving and cursing softly and doing a rather inelegant job of getting them past his knees. He kicks the trousers off under the sheets and promptly forgets his pants tangled around one leg in favor of wrapping them around Sherlock’s larger frame, his friend wedging himself between his thighs.   
  
Friend. Colleague. Partner. Only. Just. A warm body rubbing against his own. All that matters.   
  
Sherlock on top. John underneath. He’s certain he would normally protest this. Decides it’s not worth the effort and his shoulder is beginning to ache horridly, anyway.  He’d put up quite a fight when Moriarity’s men had taken him. Wrenched the hell outta his shoulder.  John holds Sherlock close with his bad arm wrapped around his back. He spits into the other hand and wiggles it between them, adding it to Sherlock’s hand, to the sweat and pre-cum easing this ill timed, desperately pathetic wank.  Pushes his face into the side of the other man’s neck and focuses on finding his release with a single minded dedication.   
  
But it’s awkward and frustrating. They don’t move very well together, unable to find a mutual rhythm or even a satisfactory grip.  Both too frantic to get off to do it properly. Stuttering breaths and the dull  thwapthwap of clumsily stroked flesh are embarrassingly loud in the quiet of his room.  John can also hear the low creaky sound of Sherlock fisting the pillow beside his head, crushing the filling inside, straining the fabric of the pillowcase.   
  
John twists his wrist, tightens his grip on the upstroke and thumbs over the tip of Sherlock’s leaking cock.  A basic technique that’s served him well in the past. Sherlock gives an appreciative groan and reciprocates the gesture.  It works. He stops just once to slap another layer of saliva into the process.   
  
It’s still awkward and messy and their hands keep getting in each other’s way and Sherlock accidentally catches a few of John’s curls in a painful tug, but finally the familiar sensations begin to heat up in John’s belly. Finally, it starts to feel  good ,instead of something he just has to do in order to  not feel bad.   
  
And yet Sherlock is first.  John’s eyes go wide as the lanky body stiffens atop him, Sherlock losing all semblance of rhythm or cooperation. Random, wild jerks and a wash of warm fluid instantly smearing between them.  Soft, muttered curses. John takes it all in; the new slick, the added heat, Sherlock slumped and gasping against him. Those clever fingers continue to pump John’s cock, thumb worrying the foreskin so wonderfully.  That clever mouth lazily lips just behind his ear, tongue tracing the crease. Sherlock mumbles something and John has no idea what it is, but the warm breath in his ear is enough to push him over the edge.   
  
Not mind blowing, this one, no. Orgasm takes John in a slow rolling wave. Curls his toes, creeps upwards through every tensing muscle, presses the back of his head into the pillow Sherlock is still clutching. His mouth is open, but John is silent. Only breath. Shattered inhales and a deep exhale let loose against Sherlock’s shoulder.  No flashes of light behind his eyelids. Just a greying around the edges of his vision, blurring the scene for a few moments before John blinks into the yellowing light of his room and stares blearily up at his ceiling.   
  
Decidedly anti-climatic. Like most of his evening, so far.   
  
Sherlock coughs, a small uncomfortable sound, and lifts up. John barely looks at him. Just a tight smile and a glance to say  _Don’t_ , that Sherlock naturally deciphers and, amazingly enough, obeys.   
  
John thanks Christ for small favors and manages to get his wet hand down and his leg up, meeting in the middle to completely strip off his pants. Uses the thin material to half arse wipe away the fluids on his hand and belly.    
  
He can feel it, beginning in his chest. A tiny thrumming. He’d hoped it wouldn’t happen this time.  
  
John takes a deep breath and makes one pass over his sticky groin before passing the soiled pants to Sherlock.  He’s washing the linens tomorrow, he’s not going to worry about a few extra stains.   
  
Sherlock moves off him, on his back beside John,  before cleaning up. John doesn’t watch. He’s busy breathing and concentrating on containing the thrum that has spread to his limbs and neck. Tightens his jaw and clenches his hands under the blankets.  Wills it to stop or at least not become too apparent before Sherlock leaves.   
  
It doesn’t happen every time. John honestly hadn’t believed it would happen now. Tonight has been rough, of course, but not quite that traumatic.   
  
This little thing is over now and John feels much better, his mind much quieter than before. Not in the forcefully blanked, hazy way. But in a peacefully spent, empty way.  He’s grateful to Sherlock for this, for doing this without analyzing or questioning or talking in general despite John’s fondness for his deep, mellow voice.    
  
The thrum becomes a tremor. John clenches his jaw, refuses to let his teeth begin to chatter. _Get out. Get out. Get out..._ Carefully inhales and exhales and closes his eyes as Sherlock moves beside him. Shifting on the mattress, Sherlock sitting up. Adjusting his pyjamas and shirt. Getting ready to leave.   
  
Only to pause and lean more heavily on the mattress at John’s shoulder.  John can feel the man’s gaze burning along his skin, knows he’s looking down at John and making all sorts of annoyingly accurate observations and deductions.   
  
“ John?”  Two fingers resting on his neck, measuring his pulse.    
  
John snorts in amusement at the familiar gesture. “ S’alright.”  And he truly is. Now that his mind is settled, his body is slowly but surely settling down, as well.  John wants to reassure. Keeps his gaze hidden. “ It’s nothing, really. You can go d-down.”  It’s hard to speak. The tremor strengthens, now a barely contained shake that vibrates up and down John’s body.  He fists the sheets at his sides, knows he simply has to ride it out. “ Two t-ticks, it’ll be ov-over...”  John counts in his head.  Typically, this last symptom of his shock will torture him for no more than 3 to 4 minutes and then it will fade away as quickly as it came on. And John can go about his business or fall into a lovely sleep if time and place permit. A minor inconvenience, at the most.   
  
Though, the shakes have lasted for as long as an hour. That one time. When he lost Ollie...   
  
But this isn’t that, and John knows Sherlock is itching to get back to his experiments or his skull or possibly even their next case. Away from any awkward fallout he is probably expecting to occur and if John had the strength he would laugh out loud at that thought. Post-combat fucks are too deeply ingrained in him for John to feel any embarrassment or a need to rationalize, to justify.   
  
It’s just human nature. To need a little bit of  _this_ after having the piss scared out of you.   
  
John sighs, the exhale less than smooth, and risks a peek at Sherlock.  Even gets half a smile on his face as he feels the tension swelling in his muscles, close to peaking in intensity.  Much too difficult to hide now. “ R-r-really, I’m fi-fine.” Shuts his eyes again, focuses.   
  
Weight dipping on the edge of the bed, on top of the blanket, rolling toward John. A solid body presses against his side. A long arm slides over his chest, his injured shoulder cupped in a large hand. A dip in the pillow and a chin resting on top of his head. Sherlock’s voice very matter-of-fact above him. “ I won’t leave you alone.”   
  
John hesitates a fraction of a breath, and then lets go, his entire body quickly swept up in the spasms. Places a shaking hand on the elbow angled over his chest.   
  
Because he knows Sherlock is going to hold him for the next few minutes regardless of any argument or protest. Because he knows Sherlock is convinced that leaving John alone right now would be Not Good.   
  
Because he knows deep down, Sherlock needs a little bit of  _this_ in return.   
  
And John is perfectly content with that.   
  
**end**


End file.
